“Here, when you meet the digger of the Singer’s grave, open this folded scrap of paper and read aloud the words. But do not open it or read it till then.”

“I do not understand.”

“You may quite soon,” said Anthem. They left the room together and stepped into the streets. Anthem began to sing.

And Everyman went back to the fields to study science and hope Sarkon would come by early afternoon. He was not disappointed.

XIII

A magician pulls bunnies out of empty hats. An Evil Lord pulls reptiles out of dank and crawling pits and places writhing, muddy serpents in the cradles of the infant saints.

When Sarkon appeared, he was naked to the waist. The muscles of his shoulders glinted bronze beneath his strong neck and bold head. He bore a discus with the arrogance of self-assurance.

“Sarkon!” Everyman exclaimed. “You are a god indeed!”

“Ah, ah, ah,” the handsome youth responded. “The gods are dead, remember? Now there is only science and yearning appetite. How did you find your maid last night?”

Everyman looked down. “I only loved her while I lusted, and then I hated her for making me recall I am never satisfied for long.”

“What are you reading from your sciences today?” the churlish Sarkon probed.

“Today I’m reading the scroll called THE REASON OF SUBSTANCE. Did you know that this small stone I prop my foot against is a seething mass of whirling orbs, each with its tiny lightning storms and milky ways?”

“So I have heard, Everyman. And are the tavern maids composed of such minutiae—of dancing, shooting particles of stars—of spinning microworlds tearing orbits in the center of their bosoms, and fleeting beams of small galactic storms?”

“You’ve read the scrolls of science!” said Everyman in glee.

“Enough to know that we are but a gathering of microsuns, fast moving asteroids that whirl at lightning speed. But evening’s soon and we must get to the taverns once again.”

“Before we go, you promised me an introduction,” Everyman reminded him.

“I did?”

“Yes. You said that I might meet the man who laid the Singer in his grave.”

“Oh yes … him.” Sarkon grimaced and then with added certainty he acquiesced, “Very well, young scientist. You shall meet the man indeed. He’s buried many singers I can tell you, friend. His shovel never rusts. Come right this way.”

Everyman still marveled at the handsome Sarkon, looking yet as though some sorceress had blessed a statue in the temple and set it free to tread the planet and give the gaping men of Terra an exhibition of divinity. Then Everyman remembered that in his view of things, there were no gods—oh, how he wished there were!

He followed Sarkon down a rocky path into a grove of trees where the afternoon sun fell in splotches on the ground. In the scarcity of light he saw an old man sitting by a rough wood shack. As he looked upon the old man, he felt once more the crumpled parchment in his pocket and wondered if there would be ample light to read it when the time should come.